I'd like to preface the following blogpost by dedicating it to the following: Rock City Tobacco, 'Rock N Roll,' Dawson's Creek, a girl I met when I was sixteen, and also Stef.
As it burns like money,
the need, I mean,
I listen to talk radio
and become emotionally shattered
and teary-eyed
crazily moved
by the sharp longing
to hope for anything
hope for everyone
trust anyone
love people
but I don't think I can/will.
I wanna stand on the corner with a handful of pills
and just fucking scream
like I was young again
and I can't afford to keep giving these
fucking crackheads
my cigarettes.
More medecine.
(Marie with the cracked lips
asleep on a mattress
a rock in her right hand
condoms on the night stand,
and shriveled on the floor with diseases)
(Marie with the bright eyes
who won't let me inside
who looks straight at me and lies
looking for a sign,
her mother said, 'Marie, find Jesus.')
Faith in a pamphlet
Safe in a tablet.
(How'd it get worse? That's stupid.)
I don't care enough to not love Marie
either one or both or none
no one
more medecine
plateau.
'Marie, are you sleeping?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Because it's the only way I can dream.'
'What do you aspire to be?'
'Loved.'
'I understand that, I think.'
'Not really, I don't think you do because if you did your love for me wouldn't hinge on fiction.'
'Yes it would. Besides, why are you so sad?'
'You would love me less if I was happy.'
'That's not true.'
'I think it is.'
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